


A Million Lies (Behind Blue Eyes)

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, tattoo artist!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:05:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The eighth wonder of the world turns out to be a moment shared between two young men in a tattoo parlor and half of a silly tattoo of a smiley; Louis Tomlinson smiles.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Proper smiles at Harry’s joke, a smile that soon turns into a helpless giggle of his own, an angelic sound that has Harry’s heart dancing an odd rhythm.<i></i></i><br/>  <i></i><br/><i>(A tattoo parlour AU based on a prompt requested by an anon.)</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Lies (Behind Blue Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Filled in [this prompt](http://louisysl.tumblr.com/post/147246676846/have-i-entered-an-alternate-universe-or-did-you) requested by Anonymous on tumblr.

Harry, a twenty-four-year-old with a fulltime job at a tattoo parlor owned by his best friend, is not usually one to pick favorites.

Sure, there’s that lovely lady in her late sixties with her whole body covered in tattoos, always looking for more. She’s the very embodiment of a middle finger pointed at those whining about tattoos being a bad choice in the long run, for you’ll either regret them or they’ll look horrible once you grow up. She looks glorious, and doesn’t regret a single one – even the one that was Harry’s first official tattoo at the shop, a little-bit wonky heart surrounded by spiky roses. She even tells him (though Harry’s sure she’s lying) that it’s her favorite tattoo.

Or that one mute customer who’s the most positive, colorful person Harry has met in his life. He comes in a few times a year with a new sketch and a bunch of new stories to tell from around the world – and he always asks for Harry, since he’s the only one who knows sign language and, unfortunately, the only one who hasn’t asked invasive, insensitive questions. His name is Niall, and he loves to travel the world – and for every tattoo Harry inks on that milky skin, he gets a wild story in return, worth much more than the money he pays.

Then there are those walk-ins that just brighten up your day; comical geniuses who hate his knock knock -jokes but offer to tell him a few good ones to entertain customers with (which he politely declines), simply beautiful people with amazing stories they don’t mind sharing, and tough-looking bikers who are actually members of BACA and total sweethearts about it, blushing whenever it gets mentioned, so humble and nonchalant as though they aren’t saving lives.

Besides tattooing, people are Harry’s favorite part of the job.

But if he _had_ to pick a favorite, that wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.

There’s this boy, soft and silent, usually dressed in the fanciest leather jackets on the market, once even in a dark sparkling suit he refused to give a reason for. He has electric, strikingly blue eyes, the kind that remind you of the waves of the ocean, calm and powerful, wild and unpredictable.

That’s just in Harry’s mind, though; the reality is another story.

See, Harry’s an utter sap when he sometimes not-so-subtly gets lost in those eyes, imagining the way they’d light up if the man ever smiled, or how they’d darken in the blurry shadows of a secret rendezvous, how striking they’d be if he ever got angry.

But he can’t help imagining all those things, can’t help the emotions he wants to see in that vacuous stare of the stranger.

Harry has tattooed him four times within two months. He’s the most business-like, straight forward customer he’s ever had.

A no-bullshit kinda guy, if you will.

When you see programs on the telly about tattoo parlors, they’re always filled with tragic background stories of those tattooed; deep, beautiful, disturbing meanings to the tattoos inked on their skin.

The reality is different. It’s not part of the small talk to ask for the reason the customer is getting a certain tattoo; that is mostly only asked when the tattoo is something controversial or something the artist has reason to believe they’ll regret come morning or motherhood, like a tramp stamp or a drunken penguin.

A tattoo of a penguin taken when one is drunk, that is. Not a drunk penguin. Though that would be-

“No”, Zayn deadpans.

Frowning, Harry looks up at his best friend staring him down with a stern, unamused look on his godlike figure. “Are you reading my mind again? I didn’t sign up to be the best friend of Edward Cullen’s, y’know.”

Zayn looks less than amused at the (in Harry’s opinion rather) hilarious answer, cocking his pierced brow with a sigh. “I know your voice is low and all, and maybe Aliens can’t hear such low sounds, but there’s no need for much mindreading when someone’s talking out loud.”

“Aliens?”

“Nothing”, comes the innocent answer with a pat on his shoulder. “Just that if I was you, I’d keep my thoughts to myself. Louis’ your next client, in case you forgot, and his appointment is in five minutes.”

No, he didn’t forget. He’d like to, mind you, because this is the third time seeing Louis’ name on his schedule has given him butterflies and flushed cheeks, and the fourth time his high expectations will be spectacularly let down with the bare minimum interaction their appointment is going to hold.

As luck would have it, Louis has decided to turn up four minutes early.

Harry is thankful to be standing by his workstation with a clear view of the front desk and entrance, because the sight of Louis entering the shop can’t be described as anything short of mesmerizing.

The sun is shining straight on his back, illuminating his figure in gold that gives him a heaven-like glow. And as the door closes behind him, bathing him in the warm light of the shop, his sharp cheekbones gain a shadow under them, his delicate demeanor a striking contrast to the tight line of his lips and the grim expression on his face.

He walks the way Harry talks; slow and delicate, thoughtful and aware. The effortless sway of his hips has to be practiced, the smoothness of his pace too fascinating not to be intentional. Yet there’s something so soft and adorable, childlike even, to the way he’s holding the straps of his leather rucksack with both hands, sweaterpaws and everything.

The receptionist recognizes him immediately, gesturing for him to walk further back to Harry’s workstation. He’s got a bit of a reputation at the parlor already; there are a few people everyone kind of just _avoids_ unless they’re supposed to be in direct contact with them.

Harry turns around quickly, not wanting to get caught drooling at the sight of the man walking towards him (he did that the last time; the man has thighs sculpted by the Gods above, so sue him).

There’s already the ghost of a blush present on his heated cheeks, his almost schoolboy-like crush on the man obvious to everyone around.

Everyone except Louis, who’s appeared exclusively oblivious to it, enough so that Zayn hasn’t even bothered with the usual, _if you don’t ask you’ll never know, just ask him out you’re gorgeous he’ll bloody worship you_ , instead just giving him a sad wink whenever the name has appeared on his schedule with a wish of good luck and a weak remark of guaranteed wankbank material.

And while the remark isn’t entirely untrue, Harry’s started to seriously question the worth of said material given the cost of it; hours of mindless blushing and a vague shake to his usually so stable hands that has him scared of the possibility of fucking up the art he’s supposed to ink on the most intriguing art he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Harold?”

Sucking a panicked breath in, Harry closes his eyes in a futile attempt of calming his nerves. Lord, the voice on that man – it’s like an oasis.

“Have you ever considered voice acting?” he blurts out as he turns around, the idiotic question out of his mouth before he can stop the words from spilling.

It’s evident in the rare show of emotion that is the confusion in Louis’ brows that the question was unpredictable - to say the least.

Harry just grins the awkwardness away, dimples and all, gesturing for Louis to sit down on the tattoo chair, taking the folder he’s being offered.

As an afterthought, Harry looks up from the cover of the folder to say, “M’names just Harry, by the way.”

If he was hoping for a stupid, _hello Just Harry I’m Just Louis_ , or better yet, _hello Just Harry I’m dad(dy)_ , he’s, yet again, let down. Louis simply nods in vague acknowledgement and sits on the chair, bum on the very edge of it but legs still not quite reaching the ground, and it’s doing things to Harry’s insides someone’s height shouldn’t have the power to do.

Especially when said someone is a stranger that likes to get tattooed frequently but never arses with more talk than necessary.

He’s got that that whole mysterious air to him that Zayn’s fought since his early teens to achieve, but has never quite mastered. Or maybe Harry’s just too close with him for such disguises to work.

He’d never tell that to Zayn, though. Not unless he ever gets on his nerves so much that the week of stubborn, silent moping that’d follow would be worth it.

“Page seven”, Louis says, a little throaty and rough, as though he’s barely used his voice today, and Harry obliges before he can even assimilate the words properly.

The page that opens is empty safe for a tiny drabble right on the middle of the seventh page. Harry stares at it in disbelief, stroking a finger over it as if to test whether it really is there, whether that’s genuinely what Louis’ asking for him to tattoo on him. It’s just- the _irony_.

It’s a fucking smiley. With x’s for eyes. Barely the size of half a thumb.

He’s aware he’s gaping when he lifts his gaze up, but Louis’ face remains as expressionless as a statue, simply staring at him with a look that borders on bored.

“You- you want a, uhm, right. So. Where’d you like me to tattoo it?” he stumbles over his words awkwardly, the pace of his speech unnaturally hurried.

Wordlessly, Louis stands up and-

“Louis?” he squeaks, eyes round as he jumps back at the sight of Louis unbuttoning his skintight jeans, and then he’s pulling them down ascetically.

Harry can’t quite breathe at the sight of those obscene thighs _naked_.

Harry quits. He quits. He’s _done_ , completely fucking done for, he’s reached the point of ultimate _hell-fucking-no_ now. This is where it’s too much. Nope. No. Nada. Na’a. Ain’t no bloody way.

Harry’s eyes are _lying_ to him, straight up bullshitting him because there’s no way the very, very corners of Louis’ lips are tugging up the slightest bit as he sits back down, jeans around his ankles and- and a look of something in his eyes, something Harry can’t quite catch.

“Here”, Louis says, pointing at the middle of his left thigh with his finger.

He swallows audibly, running a hand through his curls he hasn’t even remembered to put up in a bun yet. “There?” he questions roughly, his voice about as done as he is.

Louis just looks at him, a completely unreadable expression on his face that’s no longer nothing. But something is not much better than nothing when that something makes less sense than nothing.

He is so fucking confused.

He’s reached a level of blown away he hasn’t ever before known to exist, and it’s like his brain has just decided to fly into a fog so thick and widespread getting out is a struggle at best.

“There. M-hm. Yes. Okay. _Totally_.”

He knows he’s making little to no sense by now, but Louis seems completely unaffected by it, legs wiggling a little in the air and eyes traveling the shop, taking in all the other customers Harry’d somehow managed to forget all about, Louis’ presence locking him into an alternate universe where it’s just the two of them and where he’s a completely malfunctioning version of himself.

The whole situation unravels a little as he gets to sterilizing and getting everything ready for the tiny tattoo, the blush on his cheeks disappearing almost completely and no sight of wet patches under his armpits when he ties his hair into a bun.

It’s almost exciting getting to shave Louis’ thigh, the milky skin that’s revealed as the hair disappears looking impossibly soft under his gloves, making the urge to get rid of said gloves to caress it almost irresistible.

“Ready?” he asks instead, his voice actually steady for once.

Louis nods, a hand coming to rest next to his thigh while he buries the other one in his hair. If it wasn’t for the tattoo gun about to be pressed on his skin, Harry would think the way he’s biting into his lower lip is intentionally there to distract him.

Other than a small hitch to his breath, Louis stays quiet as Harry works on the first X of the smiley, his thigh only spasming a little as Harry presses the needle down again to touch it up.

But the silence starts weighing on Harry as he gets started on the next eye, and in true Harry-fashion, he grins widely and looks up at Louis as he wipes ink off his skin.

“How did Harry Potter get down the hill?” he deadpans.

Louis blinks down at him, pure confusion in his blue eyes. “I- uh… How?”

Feeling overjoyed Louis’ humoring him, Harry’s grin widens as he goes, “By walking.”

There’s a beat of unimpressed silence that makes Harry giggle prematurely, and he can barely finish the joke around his giggles, “Jk. Rowling.”

The eighth wonder of the world turns out to be a moment shared between two young men in a tattoo parlor and half of a silly tattoo of a smiley; Louis Tomlinson _smiles._

Proper _smiles_ at Harry’s joke, a smile that soon turns into a helpless giggle of his own, an angelic sound that has Harry’s heart dancing an odd rhythm.

Harry’s own laughter died down the moment that smile appeared on Louis’ lips, and he’s been staring at the man, completely flabbergasted, ever since.

“Did I- uh, h-have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

Louis just smiles at his question, an open, wide smile that makes his eyes crinkle, the laughter still visible in the rumble of his throat and chest.

The question receives no vocal answer, but it’s warm in the room as Harry continues the tattoo, a smile stuck to his lips and the sound of Louis’ laughter on a loop in his head, wrapping around each thought he has, a beautiful melody he’d love falling asleep to.

He can’t even feel disappointed that the tattoo is so tiny and finished too soon, because even the thought of Louis walking out soon doesn’t feel nearly as withering with the memory of a smile he never though he’d get to see still clear in his mind.

“It’s ready”, he smiles, giving the tattoo one last swipe, just because, before backing away from the chair to put the equipment away.

“It’s beautiful”, Louis says unexpectedly, his voice warm in a way it wasn’t before, the harsh edge of it completely missing. He’s still smiling, just a little, but it’s there, and it makes looking away admittedly hard.

Harry just smiles at him as he cleans the tattoo and bandages it, hating how it feels like the end of- well, Louis’ appointment, he supposes. It just feels a little bigger than that, which of course makes no sense.

“So, um, you know the drill”, Harry says awkwardly, hating that this is the moment they’ll part their ways again with no guarantee this beautiful boy will ever sit on his tattoo chair again, “you’ll pay at the front desk, and if you want to book a new appointment you can book that too, Zelda has all our artists’ schedules and portfolios.”

“Zelda is the receptionist, right?”

“Uh, yeah”, he nods, a little confused by the unusual chattiness of the man. Usually, he’d be out the door by now.

“So, Harold”, Louis says then, and there’s this _twinkle_ in his eyes like he’s up to something. Harry’s heart gives a spectacular drop of epic proportions.

He can’t help the hopeful lace to his words when he answers, “Yeah?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on **[tumblr, @louisysl](http://louisysl.tumblr.com/) **!**** Thanks for reading, and massive love for anyone who comments!


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